


I like your name (let me take it)

by she_who_drank_vodka_with_cats



Series: steering towards the harbour [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, oblivious idiots, tough acting witcher being all soft on the inside, very short mention of ciri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23260648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/she_who_drank_vodka_with_cats/pseuds/she_who_drank_vodka_with_cats
Summary: Geralt of Rivia's name is made up and Jaskier gives him the idea that he can change the fake name to something he relates to, so he thinks about what he really likes and tries some variations×X"It will do, buttercup," Jaskier finally decides."No," Geralt huffs with a shake of his head. "Don't call me that.""You've been trying out names, am I not allowed to make some suggestions?"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: steering towards the harbour [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717534
Comments: 55
Kudos: 261





	1. the idea

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [just a post on tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/570328) by me. 



"And if I hadn't spend the whole summer inside the house I would never have picked up my sister's lute, that is why destiny broke my leg," Jaskier finishes with a flourish.

"Destiny didn't break your leg, meeting the ground after falling out of a window did," Geralt comments without looking up from cleaning his sword.

"I was pushed."

"By a piglet which you had smuggled into a young maiden's bedchambers."

"Her father had startled the poor animal," Jaskier sighs and flutters down to perch next to Geralt on the log close to the campfire who finally looks up just to bestow him with a raised eyebrow, amusement only detectable by the keenest observers in the twinkle of his eyes.

"He came upon hearing your screams. Say again, how does one set the hair on his chest on fire?"

The younger man huffs and crosses his arms.

"Recalling only the embarrassing details, I see. Well, you can't deny to have listened, you know what happened and I won't repeat it."

"Come on, bard, that was my favourite part of the story and I'd like to hear it once more. You gouged holes into a pipe and tried to play and smoke it at the same time. I am in awe,"

"Well, thank you, I thought the idea was rather genius myself," Jaskier says proudly, puffing up his chest, but deflates as Geralt raises a single finger.

"Let me finish. I am in awe of this idiocy. What fool doesn't know that blowing into a lit pipe will cast out the hot ash?"

The musician jumps to his feet again, his hands braced on his hips, the ever present energy in his body nourishing his dramatics.

"I was young and aspiring and one had to be of unique ideas to stand out of the notable crowd in Lettenhove." The pout on his lips reminds Geralt of a freshly caught trout. "We don't all have childhoods full of, I don't know, earning sweets from our parents by killing baby monsters with our baby sword."

Geralt halts the caring for his weapon and glares at the bard, his eyebrows nearly colliding in the frown.

Jaskier waves a dismissive hand. "How was growing up in Rivia anyway? You failed to mention."

The witcher harumphs and goes back to the soothing motion of polishing the steel in his hands.

"I'm not from Rivia."

"Now that is a poor lie to avoid the topic when you answer to Geralt of Rivia."

"It's made up."

Jaskier takes a seat next to him in a flash, startling Geralt as he bumped against his shoulder in the process, nearly having him cut his hand on the sharp blade.

"Do tell!"

Geralt grumbles, pointedly looking at the polishing cloth wrapped around his fingers, but he could feel Jaskier's big eyes on his face and knew he wouldn't let the issue drop so easily. He curses himself for having said anything at all.

"You pick a name after your training, before leaving Kaer Morhen. It is easier for people to trust a witcher if his name seems to be of human origin."

Jaskier is quiet next to him as he picks up polishing once again. He should have known that the silence was elusive, for the bookish man could concoct the most nagging questions if left alone with his thoughts for too long.

"So you have no connotations to Rivia?"

"No," Geralt sighs again beyond hope that the bard's curiosity would be satisfied anytime soon.

"No happy memories, no beloved family members?" Jaskier keeps inquiring.

"No."

"Have you ever even been to Rivia?"

"Might have passed through it once or twice."

"Huh."

The return of the quiet has Geralt grow tense and before his friend's mind could twist their conversation into a livelong wound in need of a catharsis, which it wasn't (and if it was, what was one more scar on a witcher's wretched soul?) he tersely barks at him.

"What?"

"Oh nothing," Jaskier hums in that tone of voice that means that it was definitely not nothing.

"It's just that if I were to pick a name for myself, I would choose a name related to something I love. Actually, I did exactly that. Have I ever told you why they call me Jaskier?"

He has, but Geralt wouldn't interrupt him. For one thing, it was near impossible to stop the bard from babbling, and for another thing, he quite liked the wistful smile on his friend's face whenever he recited this story.

As Jaskier got lost in the details of his narrative, the lull of his voice relaxes Geralt and before he knew it, his mind has been running miles without his permission until the persistent thought of why not change it keeps breaking to the surface.

But if he were to change his name, what would he even choose?

Of Cintra? That is where his child surprise is growing up, the little boy or girl he swore he would never meet, just to keep him or her save from a witcher's pestilent way of life. It would be witless to bound himself by name to a child he wants to have no connotations with.

Maybe he should follow Jaskier's example and pick a nice flower for his name saint. Or a pretty gem. Or a favoured animal.

 _Geralt Silverhorse_.

No, that sounds ridiculous and even more pretentious than _the white wolf._

The thoughts keep turning in his head even as he lays in his bedroll, Jaskier snoring softly next to him.

_What do I love and want people to associate with me?_

A lax hand is dropped over his face, fingers twitching upwards to try to cover his eyes.

"Your brooding interferes with my beauty sleep," Jaskier mumbles drowsy without opening his eyes. "Quit it."

Geralt pushes the hand off his face and it falls heavily onto his chest. He turns his head to tell the bard to mind his own business, but the other man's breathing has already evened out again, his heart slowed down in deep sleep.

He watches his friend's softened features for a moment, his own hand moving up to cover the one resting on his chest, before closing his eyes with a content smile on his lips.


	2. fond memories

Roach loses a horseshoe on an exceptional rocky road, which forces them to make halt in the next village. 

It is a small place with very few residents and of course the townsfolk is untrusting of any strangers. And even more so if one of the strangers is a witcher.

To Jaskier’s indignation and Geralt’s amusement the people living here had never heard of the white wolf or any of his ballads. Travellers passing by didn’t stop to sing popular songs in the seedy tavern. 

There is no money to make in renting out rooms at a place like this, but the innkeeper has a barn and so they pay the same amount of coin they usually would pay to sleep in a bed to share the hay with the goats. 

Geralt could see the building of a fit of rage in the tense shoulders of his friend as they are told the price. With a warm hand to his arm, he pulls him aside.

“They are already wary of us, let’s not give them a reason to turn us away.”

Still snarling, despite having his pockets filled to the brim, the innkeeper points them towards the blacksmith. 

The old man with wiry arms inspects all four of Roach’s hooves with a quiet professionalism that Geralt respects. All attempts at chit-chat coming from Jaskier are blocked with a harumph. 

“I can replace the lost shoe, but she’ll shed the other ones soon, too. Better to exchange them all at once."

“I’d be grateful,” Geralt offers as politely as he could. 

“That’s gonna take some time and she’ll need some rest. You got a place to spend the night, yeah?” 

“We made arrangements with the innkeeper,” he quickly answers before Jaskier could relaunch his tirade about the vulture exploiting their bad luck. 

The blacksmith huffs unpleased. “So you’re out of ducats to pay me.” 

“I’ll pay my debt, don’t you worry.” Patting his loyal companion’s neck, the witcher tries to convey his sincerity. “Else you will have a fine horse in your possession.” 

The man grunts in a way that tells them that he isn’t happy yet agrees.

“And what name will I give the debt-collector?” 

“Geralt of Posada.”

As soon as they are out of hearing, Jaskier is anxiously tapping Geralt shoulder in a quick rhythm and he doesn't even stop the batter as he receives the demanded attention. 

"Geralt, friend, you can't leave Roach behind. She's been by your side for so long, always loyal and helpful. Yes, she's getting older and soon she won't be able to accompany you on your adventures anymore, but you can't deprive her of the last good years she has left, which she surely would love to spend as much as possible with you!"

Jaskier tumbles over his own words as he winds himself up in a frenzy so quickly, the witcher wonders if they are still talking about the horse. 

"Breath, Jaskier," Geralt holds up a hand. "I won't leave Roach behind." 

"Then why did you use a fake name," Jaskier whispers loudly, never knowing how to be low-key. 

"You mean instead of my old fake name?" 

Comprehension dawns on Jaskier's face, followed by a giddiness that is usually preserved for when he thinks of especially witty rhymes. 

"You took my advice!", he beamed, his arms wide open in victory. 

"I repeated an action I had already once done years ago", Geralt states and resumes walking towards the market in search for work. 

He doesn't know if the feeling in his chest is regret about having said too much, as the bard keeps throwing him knowing looks that border on pride, or if it is delight over having put his friend in such a good mood. 

To the witcher's chagrin there is no monster to kill and he doubts that the folks here could pay his usual price anyway. They meet, however, a young widow whose oldest son is lying down with an infection and she is in need of help to take care of the farm. She doesn't have much to offer, but it is enough to pay the blacksmith and then they can leave this depressing place behind. 

Geralt is already shoveling dung onto a rickety cart, while Jaskier is standing to the side, scrunching up his nose. 

"This is silk from Fabiola adorned with a cintrean stitch," he bemoans, fingering his doublet. "The smell will follow it forever."

Geralt pauses his work and leans heavy on the pitchfork. He is already so tired of walking on eggshells around these obstinate people all day, he doesn't have the energy to uphold a discussion with his companion. 

"Fine," he gives in with a weak huff. "Prepare our bedding for tonight and try to gather some food. Don't steal from the crops, go into the woods and hunt for rabbits instead. And don't wait up for me, this will all take even more time after the sun went down," he instructs, indicating the fields they're supposed to fertilise. 

Turning back towards the work, he waits for the sound of Jaskier's footsteps retreating, but it's the sound of rustling cloth that has him look up again. 

Jaskier is shedding his doublet rather violently, folds it in a way that is sure to leave wrinkles and drops it over the closest fence. 

"I hate this," he grumbles as he grabs the other pitchfork and jerkily starts scooping the fertiliser onto the cart. "I hate _you."_

"Your emotions are swift, bard," Geralt smiles as he resumes to shovel shit. "I don't fear that you will hate me for too long." 

With joint effort, they complete the messy task before the sun sets. The widow is pleased with their work and offers them additionally a bath and a meal in exchange for chopping her firewood. 

There is only one axe, which Geralt picks up while off to the side of the chopping block their pretty employer manages the pump to fill a medium-sized barrel with clean water. 

Jaskier is already unlacing his boots, his lips fluttering like a hummingbird's wings. Geralt can't make out what he is saying over the rush of the water and the rusty lever's squeak, but he can hear her loudly laughing, the sound clear as bells. 

He tries to concentrate on his task, raises the tool in his hand and _smash_. The log breaks clean in two halves flying in opposite directions. Geralt has to use a little bit more force to pull the hatchet out of the block beneath, before he can put the next piece of wood on top of it. 

A splash disrupts his brooding, followed by a yell and the happy laugh of the lonely widow picks up again. He looks up in time to see Jaskier jumping naked and wet out of the barrel. 

Words like  _ fucking cold _ and  _ freezing off a beloved limb _ are shrieked and the amused woman throws a washcloth into the complaining bard's general direction, her eyes covered with her left hand, but the bright smile on her lips still there for everyone to see. 

Shaking her head, dark locks dancing over slim shoulders, she leaves to prepare dinner. Jaskier goes back to the barrel, this time pacing himself as he slides into the chill water. 

Geralt walks around the block to continue with his work, his back now turned to his bathing friend scrubbing dirt of his sun kissed skin. An axe in the leg is a serious injury, after all, even for a witcher. 

Come night, Jaskier let’s himself drop onto his bedroll with a theatrical groan. 

“I think I’m gonna explode,” he whines and rubs his full belly. 

“Hm”, comes Geralt’s supportive reply. 

“You had twice the serving I had, why aren’t _you_ in digestion hell?” 

“No one forced you to eat that much,” Geralt remarks and lays down on his bedroll in a more graceful manner than his friend. 

“But she kept filling up my plate and I never refuse what beautiful people offer me.”

“Hmmm,” the witcher grumbles once more and turns on his side, facing away from the other man. He closes his eyes and starts a simple meditation to tune out the bard’s randomly distributed moans, now and then accompanied by a goat's bleat. 

The calling of his name rouses his thoughts back to the present. 

“What?” he demands with a voice as dark and grating as gravel. 

“I said,” Jaskier repeats loud and slowly. “I’ll have to change the song. It’s got to be  _ graced a ride along with Geralt of Posada  _ from now on.”

Geralt thinks about it for a moment.

“Don’t bother,” he decides. “My name may change again. I’m trying out some options.”

He hears the bard thrashing beneath his covers, probably unable to find a comfortable sleeping position. This is unfortunate, for he tends to talk sometimes until he falls asleep and tonight seems to be one of those times. 

“Why Posada anyway?” Jaskier wonders aloud. 

Giving up on an early rest, Geralt peers back over his shoulder and finds the other man already looking back at him, his head propped up on his arm. 

“I have fond memories of Posada,” he shares without hesitation, letting his voice inform Jaskier that he should already have known that. 

Jaskier’s eyes widen with discomposure. 

“You get beaten up by an elf once and he calls it a fond memory,” he cries out, falling unto his back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes, I got a one-of-a-kind lute and a very, very good song out of it, but the emotional turmoil, Geralt! My artistic soul bends with the harshest of realities, but it bleeds just as easily as my flesh.” 

The bard continues his very own retelling of the events of their first shared adventure, his voice once again as calming to the witcher as a mother’s lullaby. 

He thinks about how monotonous his adventures would actually feel if Jaskier hadn’t stepped into his life, with a stupid line on his lips and a heart bigger and braver than was good for him, that one day back in Posada. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have spent a lot of time at the doctor's office so I didn't have time to prepare chapter 3 yet, you'll probably have to wait a day longer for it
> 
> stay healthy, kids!


	3. family

Jaskier’s music carries over the happily drunken lords’ and ladies’ voices and to the witcher’s fine ears the familiar sound is an anchor in a sea of jumbling noises. 

The first set isn’t over yet, but the wine flows in streams down the high citizens throats, loosening the guests tongues and smoothing the step of their dancing feet, so that the crowd seems to be drunk already.

Geralt is back in his bodyguard routine even though Jaskier promised that tonight would hold no incidents like the one back at princess Pavetta’s betrothal. The young lord pimple face or whatever his name is doesn't hold any real power, as small and unimportant as his lands are, and there are no rumors about any cursed family members or violated pledges. The whole affair looks set to be rather boring. 

At first, Jaskier has even been reluctant to perform at the insignificant lord’s annual solstice celebrations, fearing that it would damage his reputation if people heard that he would just play for anyone.

His companion had reminded him sternly that they are not only in dire need of the earnings, but that the bard had already played his songs in every tavern from the blue mountains to Gemmera and therefore been tipped by people of far lower classes. 

Jaskier refused to see the parallel, claiming that one was to compare with a singing bird in a golden cage while the other was that same animal in its natural habitat. But he admitted that the coin was indeed needed and so they are trapped for the rest of the night in the uninviting halls of this run-down manor.

Despite his complaints, it is easy to see that he is enjoying his spot on the small stage. The little bird is pushing out his chest like a young rooster on top of a dunghill, cock-a-doodle-doing at the rising sun. 

The current song ends on a high note and the dancers stop their fast twirling, loud applause is given to the musicians and Geralt watches with a roll of his eyes the exaggerated bows Jaskier takes. 

A court jester takes center stage as the bard carefully puts his lute aside and lets his gaze sweep over the crowd until his eyes find his friend.

While Geralt waits for him to make his way through the throng, he organizes another cup of cider. People left and right try to get a hold on the bard, complimenting his work and trying to satisfy their curiosity about the erudite poet who voluntarily travels with a savage witcher. 

Jaskier graces their inquiring with pretty smiles and polite words, modestly bowing his head now and then, yet fails at being modest. He gives every person the impression that they had managed to capture his whole attention, even if just for a short moment. 

One poshly dressed man must have drawn Jaskier’s interest for real, for he stands by the nobleman far longer than by the other sweet-talkers. He even beckons his new acquaintance along as he continues his way to the back of the room. 

Finally, he arrives at the witcher’s side and, without asking, takes the cup out of his hand and has a sip of the sweet cider. 

“This fine and honourable man,” he introduces the stranger with an exuberant wave that spills some liquor. “is another scholar from Oxenfurt. He’s in need of inspiration and looks for it in the study of plants. Plants! Of all things.” 

“Flowers, to be specific,” the blonde man smiling with too many teeth adds. 

_Flowers, right,_ Geralt thinks and notices the way the poet studies Jaskier. 

The fawner seems to be one of the few to remember common courtesy despite his intoxicated state and with pretentious respect nods his head at Geralt. 

“Moritian Grunberg of Roggeven. And you must be the infamous witcher, Geralt of Rivia.” He sizes the bigger man up from head to toe and Geralt wishes he would have worn his armor instead of the flimsy silken dress shirt that looks tawdry in comparison to Grunberg’s delicately embroidered jerkin. Then again, the slim man probably wouldn't even have dared to provoke Geralt with his malicious gaze, had he not found false courage in his drink tonight. 

Jaskier's free hand comes to rest on the witcher's shoulder in a similar way to how he might calm down Roach with a hand to her neck, while his eyes still twinkle at his fellow colleague. 

"Actually it’s-" 

"Geralt of Lettenhove," Geralt rectifies before Jaskier can and finally feels the bard's attention shift.

Ignorant of the pregnant situation, Grunberg keeps the conversation flowing. 

"Lettenhove? I heard so much praise about it. Is it as beautiful a place as they say?" 

"I fear I have yet to pay Lettenhove a visit," the witcher answers nonchalantly. "But it turns out, my family has its roots there."

He turns a meaningful look towards Jaskier who holds a hand to his chest, his brows knitted together and his eyes flitting as if he was trying to solve a difficult computation in his head. 

The blonde poet had followed Geralt's gaze to the brunette and seems to be much quicker with his equations. "You must have gotten to know each other pretty well after all those years." 

And Geralt harrumphs because _a moment_ was about to unfold, one of those when Jaskier catches his sentiment despite his mangled wording, but that highborn shit-arse just nipped it in the bud. 

"Well, uh, as well as one does sharing sleeping accommodations, I guess," Jaskier splutters and Grunberg seems to get it right but also so very wrong simultaneously. 

Accepting that he won't get the bard's full attention back soon, he aims his advances at the witcher. The once-over he graces Geralt with this time has a more inviting undercurrent. 

"You must have learned a lot about flowers on your travels through the continent," he drawls and puts a hand on one of Jaskier's and Geralt's shoulders each. "Why don't we three go some place less rowdy where you could share your empirical knowledge without us getting disturbed." 

Looking at Jaskier, who's head has turned an alarming shade of red as he awaits with big eyes the witcher’s reaction, Geralt muses that he didn't just imagine the proposition in that sentence. Tired of being polite, he takes the cup of cider from the bard. 

"Don't you have to continue to provide the amusement for the guests soon?" 

"Yes, I do," Jaskier jolts up. Finally waking from his stupor, his whole body moves fluidly as he sashays from beneath their mutual suitor’s hand. 

“Tian, we gotta reminiscent about Oxenfurt another time. I’ve got a lute to play, a song to sing, wait,” he stops his feet and his eyes flit between the other two men. “You’re not leaving this shindig without me, are you?” 

Geralt cocks his head and scowls at his friend. 

"Yeah, not gonna happen, right," Jaskier concludes correctly and continues to walk backwards towards the stage, just to bump into the next nobleman "Oh! I am terribly sorry!" and gets shoved along into the crush of people. 

The witcher keeps his eyes on the crowd until the bard emerges on the other side of the room. 

"So," Grunberg starts next to him, obviously still hoping to find his happy ending for tonight between the white wolf and his lark.

His ingratiation is quickly cut off by Geralt's warning growl. 

"Fuck off." 

He doesn't watch the man go, but chucks the rest of the cider in one big gulp, grimaces at the sweet taste and leans back against the wall as the music takes up again. 

The night quarters the lord has provided Jaskier with are in the main part of the building, spacious, with a fireplace and a large bed. 

Yet here he was, in the annexe that held the smaller chambers for the less important guests, fingering the rough wool blanket on Geralt's less luxurious bed and distastefully scrunches his nose. 

It's been close to sunrise when the festivities had wind down and Jaskier had followed Geralt into his room. His lute rests next to the dresser, his doublet is casually unbuttoned and his chatter fills the witcher's disinterested ears with the party's most scandalous gossip. 

"We should head north," he says out of the blue. "I would love to show you Oxenfurt."

The witcher simply grunts and gets ready for bed, he yearns for sleep too much to debate their travel plans. 

"But we'll stop in Lettenhove first, visit the family. My cousin will eat you right up. She is the most elegant dame with the darkest sense of humour. It doesn't befit a lady, but her tongue is sharp enough to scathe everyone who tries to scold her for it."

Geralt halts his undressing. "What?" 

He gains a look as if he were the unreasonable one. 

"Penelou, my cousin." 

"No. Why should I meet your family?" 

"Your family," Jaskier is quick to correct. "If I interpreted your enigmatic words right, you figure me to be family and I agree with the sentiment. In extension, my family is your family, too."

"Hmm," Geralt neither affirms nor denies his friend's declaration. 

Moving his hands even more frantically through the air than usual, Jaskier makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. 

"Why is it always two steps ahead and one step back with you? Had my soul feet, they would be sore from all this dancing around! I have not yearned quietly, Geralt, and you discard my advances restively, yet never discourage them. Look at me!" 

Geralt's head jerks up at the sudden outburst. Jaskier is standing too close to him, his piercing blue eyes pin him to the spot. His gesticulating hands strive Geralt's shirt. 

"I have been standing at the brink for far too long, afraid I might fall. But I am done with the suspense. I am jumping off the cliff right now."

Metaphors are the bard's milieu, nevertheless Geralt finds himself thinking _Jump, jump and I will catch you_. 

He doesn't articulate his thoughts and once more experiences that between the two of them, Jaskier is the bolder one. 

The younger man takes a deep breath and plunges. 

"I adore you, Geralt. I love you, even. And I would be happy to have your consent to act upon my feelings. To dote on you and cherish you and let the whole world know I am besotted with you. All I need is your commitment or your plain rejection."

Geralt studies his beloved bard's hopeful face. A tight knot is clogging his throat, he can't even grunt in answer. He wishes there was a witcher's elixir he could take, one that would help him get through this situation in a similar manner another elixir would help him during a fight against a kikimora. 

He thinks of how swiftly he had earned Jaskier's devotion. Thinks of all the men and women the romantic had fallen in and out of love with in the span of a night. He also wonders what would happen if he were to lie, just decline any more than friendly feelings and turn the bard down. Would he leave him and look for love in another place? 

Geralt swallows tensely and his already dry throat scratches from the action. 

"Your mind is befuddled from lack of sleep," he suggests slowly. "We should go to bed and talk about it in the morrow. 

"Oh, don't pin your cowardice on my condition," Jaskier complaints as Geralt crawls into bed, hoping that the bard would leave for his own chambers if he pretended to go to sleep. 

His hopes are shattered as Jaskier begins to undress himself. 

"What are you doing?" 

"I am taking the steps for both of us," he grumbles, his breaths are coming short as he hops on one leg to pull his tight trousers off. 

Geralt can not avert his stunned gaze as Jaskier in his fury continues to be upmost adorable. 

He loses his balance and drops into the bed next to the witcher. With impatient kicks, he gets rid of his pants and then slips beneath the blanket.

His head lands heavily on Geralt's chest and he pulls the stronger man's arm around his shoulders. Their legs smoothly intertwine, the position coming naturally to them. Jaskier's breathing still comes out in irritated puffs as he closes his eyes and settles for the night. 

Geralt gulps. He can feel Jaskier's thundering heartbeat, quick as a rabbit's, throb against his side. 

They have shared a bed before, but never like this. Not this engulfed in each other. Not this intimate. 

"I could push you out," he croaks. 

"You could, and I would leave for my own bed," Jaskier agrees easily, but neither of them moves a muscle. 

After a moment, Geralt licks his thumb and forefinger and extinguishes the candle on the bedside table. 

It is futile, for the morning sun is already peeking through the thin curtains, bestowing the room with a soft light. An early bird celebrates the beginning of the new day with a song. 

In Geralt's embrace, the bard's body is still unusually tense and static, a sharp contrast to the calm atmosphere. The urge to put him at ease is overwhelming. 

"I, uh," Geralt swipes his tongue over his chapped lips and fights to bear a whole sentence out of the sudden void in his head. "I don't think this will work out." 

Jaskier pushes himself off Geralt's chest and points frightened eyes down at him. 

"You don't want me." 

"No," Geralt shakes his head. "No, I do. It's just-"

He takes a deep breath and braces himself, before he returns Jaskier's imploring gaze. 

"Your emotions are swift bard, I fear you won't love me for much longer." 

The happiness on Jaskier's face rises as softly as the sun outside. Slowly, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss on Geralt's furrowed brow. 

"I won't make any promises you don't set much store by, but I assure you that right here, right now, my heart is yours. What you're going to do with it is up to you." 

Carefully, Geralt places his hand in the other man's back of the neck and pulls him down until their lips meet. He is delighted to notice Jaskier smiling into their kiss and feels his own mouth stretch into a grin. 

They kiss and kiss, their tongues exchange sweet touches, and their fingertips dance lightly over heated skin, raising goosebumps on their way. 

Jaskier is the first to pull away, his human lungs aching for air much sooner than the witcher's. He lets his head drop and hides a yawn into the muscled chest beneath him. 

"I fear you were right about one thing, my dear," he bemoans. "We _do_ need sleep." 

"Hm," Geralt huffs contented and tucks him into his side. 

The mellow man follows easily, burying his face into his sweetheart's neck. 

"Sleep, Jaskier," he rumbles tiredly and cuddles his bard closer. "We'll have that talk tomorrow after all." 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I noticed that my chapters always end with them falling asleep  
> No I don't know how to change that, maybe the last chapter ends with them awake 🤷


	4. not that

They don’t talk, but they don’t stop the gestures of affection either and that is the only way Geralt knows how to show that he cares anyway. 

Otherwise, he is surprised how little their relationship has changed now that their true feelings have been revealed. They still bicker and drive each other crazier than anyone else can. They also protect each other, vouch for the other and do their best to keep their lover happy and healthy. 

But now they share a bedroll not only during the coldest nights. Now, when Jaskier stitches the witcher up, his clever hands dance over more skin than strictly necessary, mellowing the strained muscles underneath. Now, when pure joy lightens up the bards face and he radiates such a bubbling energy that Geralt feels the overwhelming need to get a small taste of such happiness by kissing him, he just does. 

"What was that for?" Jaskier asks cheerfully as their lips part, as if Geralt would need a good reason to kiss him. 

"You look content," the witcher answered truthfully and turned back to survey his potions. "I wanted a taste." 

"Wait, is that a thing?" the bard lowers the lute in his hand and looks down from his perch on the rock at where Geralt is kneeling in the dirt to count vials. 

"Can witchers taste emotion? Is there emotion in my spit?" 

Geralt bestows him with a raised eyebrow which Jaskier fabulously misinterprets. 

"I would like to have it known that, despite my reputation and present evidence, my blood does not run hot with passion every hour of the day! It mostly just does when you kiss me, which is simultaneously when you taste it."

Geralt huffs out a small laugh. 

"Witchers can't taste emotions." 

Jaskier lets out a relieved sigh and resumes plugging the strings on his lute. 

"We can smell them, however." 

The lute makes a sudden crooked sound that hurts the witcher's fine ears. Still, he grins as he puts the potions into his backpack and gets to his feet. 

"I need more black cat. About a mile back I saw a meadow with larkspur."

He shoulders his bags and Jaskier skips of his rock and follows suit. 

As they walk, the bard keeps humming the tune he had played on his lute a moment prior. It doesn’t take long until he starts rhyming out loud. 

_ “A flower in its beauty  _

_ does not bloom for me _

_ it’s blossoms flourish sweetly _

_ for everyone to see _

_ What you might deem a thistle _

_ is with a lover’s eye _

_ a pretty rose _ \- no, that imagery has been ridden to death. Geralt! List some beautiful flowers.”

Having reached their destination, the witcher stops and surveys the meadow. Roach already bowed her head down and munches happily on the luscious gras. 

“I don’t know about the beauty of a flower, I can only specify it’s enchanting capabilities.”

He bends down to pluck a high grown plant without a bloom and hands it to Jaskier.

“Ingest this one and it elicits in a man a more potent love.”

Jaskier lets the herb tickle his nose as he looks at his paramour through his eyelashes.

“Oh my, dear Geralt, when did you pick up the art of seduction?”

That’s when Geralt loses his serious composure and starts chuckling. Jaskier drops the plant and throws his arms out.

“For heaven’s sake, you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” he cries out.

“It’s just high grass,” Geralt confirms and laughs louder. 

An exaggerated pout adorns the bard’s lips, yet his eyes twinkle with amusement as he places his hands on his hips.

“This is torment, not love. I feel unloved, Geralt!”, he shouts after the man who is stepping further away from the road and onto the meadow. 

His eyes are searching for the right herbs when a little yellow flower catches his attention. He picks it up and holds it out for Jaskier to see. 

"Your namesake", he points out and pins it through a buttonhole on his shirt. The flower's bright colour is radiant in contrast to the black fabric. "Happy?" 

Jaskier makes a show of thinking his answer through. 

"It will do, buttercup," he finally decides. 

"No," Geralt huffs with a shake of his head. "Don't call me that."

"You've been trying out names, am I not allowed to make some suggestions?" Jaskier jokes. 

"Names, not jibes," comes the gruff reply.

"It's not a jibe, it's a term of endearment. What else should I call you?", the bard smirks. "Darling? Dearest? Maybe sweetheart? Or my love?" 

For only a split second, Geralt pauses in his search, even so it is long enough for Jaskier's attuned eye to notice the involuntary reaction. His grin nearly splits his face in half. 

"My love it is. Now tell me what you exactly you need, so I can help you picking flowers."

"Gathering ingredients for my potions," the witcher corrects the flippant wording.

"Call it what you want," Jaskier shrugs. "The action stays the same. It's quite a sad thought, though," he adds apropos. "Your flower will wither and die before we reach civilisation." 

"Then you will pick another one for me." 

"That I will do, my love." 

Geralt doesn't know what exactly the poet heard in his statement, but he is glad for the delighted look it brings to his beloved's face. 

Maybe he doesn't always have to search so long for the right words. 

It takes another day of traveling until they reach a town. They book a room for two nights at the less expensive inn, so that Geralt can mix his potions in peace. 

The first concoction already simmers over the fireplace and it has to be left alone for another hour, therefore they agree to go down and order dinner. 

Geralt wolfs down his pork hock like a starving man, it's been a long time since he tasted a meal this good. It takes some time for him to notices that Jaskier has frozen with the fork halfway to his mouth to gape at the patron sitting at the table in the corner. 

"What a heavenly sight! The Gods themselves must have created this colossus of a woman," he declares in awe and Geralt finally looks up and follows his gaze. 

The woman is indeed a sight to behold, easily as tall as Geralt and with arms as thick as tree trunks. A frown sits on her round face and her broad shoulders are tense under the men's attention. 

"What a delightful thought, to put those strong legs to good use and have her bouncing in my lap. She could crush my hips in the heat of passion and I would die a happy man," Jaskier monologues as wistfully as he would sing a tragic love song. 

He grabs onto Geralt's shoulder like one in need to brace himself. 

"No!  _ I _ would sit in  _ her _ lap," he whispers as if sharing an epiphany of great significance. 

Watching her strung up figure, the witcher is sorrowfully reminded of the times when he could sense people staring at him solely because they noticed his otherness. He had, mostly rightfully, assumed that they were wishing harm upon him. 

"Jaskier," he grunts, pitying the masculine woman who stands out like a sore thumb. "Quit staring."

"I am so sorry, my love! How terribly rude of me," 

Jaskier flagellates himself and makes it sound as if he averted his eyes for Geralt's sake instead of the woman's. His other hand joins the first on Geralt's shoulder. 

"You need to know that you, my witcher, have, uh, bewitched me and there is no lure that could call me away." 

He gazes at Geralt in the most adoring way, and the white wolf can feel his face heat up under the attentiveness of those expressive blue eyes, before he points a finger at the stout woman. 

"Therefore you don't have to worry when I go over there and bask a little in the glory that is this staggering maid," he finishes, gets up and does just that. 

And Geralt wasn't worried, but,  _ fuck _ , he is now! 

He is used to Jaskier pointing out other people's beauty. The bard praises a handsome face the same way he praises a colourful sunrise. He describes in filthy detail how he would defile a person who has catched his interest, then turns around and does those defiling things to Geralt. 

People approach him all the time and Jaskier dallies with them as much as he used to, but he doesn't approach them first anymore. 

Geralt gulps as he watches from a different perspective how Jaskier once more walks up to the most intimidating person in the room. The object of his desire is simply trying to brood in peace alone at their table in the corner, not even knowing that the bothersome bard will turn their life upside down. 

The encounter seems to go even worse this time around. Jaskier's youngest muse punches her fist on the table top and yells at him loud enough for the wohle inn to hear. 

"You think yourself witty? I heard all the jokes already. Now piss off!" 

Her grimace is thunderous and the innkeeper is squinting his eyes at them, waiting for a reason to throw them all out. 

Geralt sighs. It seems like he will have to help his little lark once more. 

"I assure you," he addresses the affronted woman plainly. "My companion's words are unfortunately of true nature. Though he is a good liar, he would never lie about beauty, he is a poet after all." 

She directs her slitted eyes at the witcher and he doesn't try to get away from her scrutinising. He lets her see his hair as white as a corpse and his viperous yellow eyes, his scars and blemishes, his otherness. 

"He ever call you pretty, witcher?" she spits and Jaskier excitedly jumps back into her field of view. 

"How could I not? With hair shining like a sharp blade reflecting the moonlight. Two golden suns set where his eyes should be." 

She turns to Jaskier in surprise. 

"You are a poet?", she asks carefully, still not fully trusting that the man means no ill. 

"I studied the seven liberal arts in Oxenfurt. There is well-founded when I claim that you are a masterpiece."

He sits down next to her and, despite the dubious look remaining on her face, this time she lets him have a seat. 

Geralt forces down the rest of the meat while Jaskier wins his new acquaintance's trust. 

"It's true, you are no traditional beauty, but traditions are boring anyway. Pretty is nice, but awe-inspiring, now you don't get to meet such people very often." 

She is cautiously smiling and her cheeks have gotten a red tinge to them. Geralt admits that she is pretty when her features aren't twisted in a frown, but he wouldn't go as far as awe-inspiring. 

He tries to tune them out as he finishes his meal and gets to the bar to pay for his food and drink. 

_ A flower in its beauty _

_ does not bloom for me _

The two lovebirds are laughing loudly and Geralt turns around to go upstairs, go to bed and spend the rest of the night telling himself that he was a fool to believe that he could ever keep Jaskier to himself, but he is stopped by an anxious looking man. 

“Ser Witcher, you gotta help me.” 

“Not a ser,” Geralt grunts, but indicates for the man to continue. 

“There is a monster hunting my water mill. I usually come into town to deliver the flour, it’s a whole day ride, but I fled with my family from our home and now we are scared to go back. It already got to my youngest son,” the miller explains with ragged breath, tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Did you see the creature?”

The miller describes what the witcher would call a drowner. There is probably more than one, but drowners tend to be an easy enough job. He tells the man his price and that he will ride out with the rise of the sun. 

The client gives his sincerest thanks and leaves to pass on the good news to his family. 

Geralt ponders if he should inform Jaskier about the job, but as he looks over to the bard, he is busy comparing hand sizes with the his new friend, the two holding their palm against the other's. Better not to disturb them. 

He goes into the back of the inn, where a set of stairs leads up to their booked room. Halfway upstairs, he hears quick footing behind him and a loud and joyful "There you are!" 

"Fuck," Geralt breathes quietly enough that the human won't hear it, before he turns around and faces Jaskier. 

The bard radiates happiness and Geralt can feel himself getting sucked back into the other man's orbit. His optimism has a gravity of its own and the witcher needs to fight harder if he wants to protect his slowly beating heart from falling further. 

"I have been looking for you," Jaskier chatters and jogs up the steps. The action leaves him breathless, but not breathless enough to keep him from talking. "Hawa thinks she can beat you at arm wrestling. I will act as the judge." 

He grabs Geralt's arm and tries to pull him back downstairs but the witcher doesn't budge. 

"I'm going to bed. I have to leave early tomorrow for another job." 

"How exciting, what kind of job?" 

"Drowners. I don't know how many, so it will be better if you don't come with me. I can't protect you if their numbers are too high." 

"I don't need prot- I'm gonna stop myself right there," Jaskier cuts a hand through the air and reassembles his thoughts before answering anew. "How long until you will be back?" 

"My client says it's a day's worth of riding to reach the mill." 

Jaskier is nodding his head thoughtfully. 

"We have enough money to book the room for another night. I'll talk to the innkeeper in the morning. Let me just say goodnight to Hawa and then I'll come to bed with you." 

"You don't have to," Geralt says quickly. 

Jaskier is already halfway down the stairs again and nearly drops the last steps down in his haste to stop his feet. 

"What?" 

"You can stay with Hawa." 

"But then I will wake you coming to bed later," the bard claims in confusion. 

"You can stay with Hawa for the night," Geralt states more precisely. 

Jaskier's eyes grow big. 

"You're giving me permission to- No, stop, nonononono," he exclaims and points an accusing finger at his partner. "You don't want me to go. You think I want to go and don't want  _ me _ to be cross with  _ you _ , therefor you tell me I am allowed to go, but if I actually go,  _ you _ will be cross with  _ me _ , though it didn't even cross my mind to go with Hawa until you told me I could, which is really crossing a line, Geralt!"

Geralt says nothing and lets his glare speak in his stead. 

"Yes, I talked about sleeping with her," Jaskier continues unprompted. "But despite my curiosity, I don't actually want to, not when I have you. You are more important to me." 

Geralt studies the brick wall. He doesn't want the little lark to see him weak, but he has to say something or they'll stand on these fucking stairs for the rest of the night. 

"One day you will want to spend the night with someone else."

The younger man pull his own hair in frustration.

"By Melitele's tits, someone hand me a shovel and I'll unearth your low self-esteem," he groans. "I am yours! And it won't change that easily, you can stop pushing me away. I will cease to swoon about pretty strangers if it bothers you, but you have to tell me if it does."

"I have to go to bed," Geralt blocks the string of words wrapping him up. He turns around and continues on his way. 

"Fine," Jaskier yells after him. "Be like that, you big oaf!" 

That night, Geralt finds it a hardship to fall asleep. The jolly tune Jaskier has been working on haunts his dark thoughts, the unfinished lyrics mock him. Rationally, he knew someone would come and whisk Jaskier away, but his nonsensical heart won't stop hurting. 

Lying awake in the dark, he is immediately alert as he hears the door to his room creak open. His posture relaxes as the smell of ale, sweat and lavender soap reaches his nose. 

Jaskier rustles in the dark, swearing under his breath as he bumps into the dresser, before he climbs into bed. 

Geralt senses the bard looming over him, holds his breath and locks every muscle in his body to conceal that he is still awake. 

Warm breath wafts over his cheek and then he feels the faintest touch of lips brush softly against his prickling skin. 

"Sleep well, my love", he hears Jaskier whisper into the night before he lies down himself. 

Geralt doesn't answer. 

He listens to Jaskier's breathing turn into snores. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cut the part in two, so you will get the actual last chapter next time


	5. my love

Roach is moving especially slow and carefully, as though not to jolt the worn out witcher sitting on her back too much. 

Turns out, the drowner was no drowner at all, but a melusine. Geralt could only guess the proceedings, but the water demon was probably looking for a husband this far upstream and the miller’s boy happened to gaze upon her true form; her devilish grimace and snake like lower body. The client could only describe what he saw above the surface of the water and that part wasn’t so different from a drowner after all. Not having laid eyes upon her tail could be the reason he was still alive.

Prepared to fight the wrong kind of monster, the witcher had to improvise, which failed fantastically. 

He lay on the muddy bank for a whole day, before his injuries had healed enough for him to make his way inside the living quarters of the mill. After cleaning the open wounds to prevent infections, he dropped into the first bed he could find and slept and meditated for another day. 

Exhausted as he is, he can only ride slowly back to town to claim his reward. He needs to take many breaks to rest is burning muscles, which turns the trip twice as long. 

The sun burns relentlessly from the sky, heating up the black clothing he wears. He should have taken another waterskin from the miller's home. Healing made him thirsty and his own supplies were already exhausted. The lack of fluids makes his head spin. 

The warmth worsens the smell of the slain monster’s rotting head. It turns his empty stomach and attracts annoying flies. Jaskier would hate the stench. 

The train of thought is cut off before he can follow it further. He tries not to think about Jaskier too much. Imagining his beloved’s face had helped him to stay calm and regenerate his health, but he had been delirious with pain and had not much control over his fever dreams. 

Being back in his right mind, Geralt is sure that he won’t come across Jaskier in the rural town. There wasn’t much coin in their purse when he had left and good tipping for a song is only given as long as the music is new and exciting. Geralt has already been away for so long that the bard must have been forced to move on without him to keep making his living. 

It would be no hardship to catch up with him, they had run across each other more than once on this wide continent before, but Geralt wonders if he should. 

Jaskier has so much love to share, he falls for a stranger every other day. It would be selfish of the witcher to hoard all of that devotion for himself. To set the bard free when he is already gone will be easier than to watch him leave. 

He reaches the outskirts by noon. Three boys are playing at war on the cow pastures, using large sticks as swords. They shout at each other as they notice the witcher riding past, drop their wooden weapons and run back into town. 

Good. Maybe the miller will await him with the payment if the boys inform everyone about the witcher returning at last. 

They make another mile before the gash in his thigh, agitated by the horse's rocking, hurts enough to bring tears to his eyes. He halts Roach and breathes through the pain. 

He grits his teeth and braces himself to dismount for one last break, when he hears someone shouting. 

Further up the road, emerging from between the first residential buildings, a colorful spot waves at him. It’s getting closer and when Geralt squints his eyes, he can make out the figure of a running man. 

A breeze picks up and carries the man’s voice to Geralt’s ears. 

It’s Jaskier’s voice.

Calling his name.

It’s Jaskier. 

Geralt urges Roach forward. The mare starts walking slowly and the movement feels like another stab in his thigh. He grimaces and grips the reins harder. 

He can't believe that Jaskier is actually still here. That Jaskier waited. 

A small part of his mind reminds him that this could be a halucation, created by the dehydration and all of those healing herbs he consumed, but then they are close enough that Geralt can see the radiant smile on Jaskier’s face and he knows it’s really him. Geralt could never imagine such bliss. 

Jaskier nearly runs into Roach. He steadies himself with a grip on her saddle and bends over to catch his breath, then looks up at Geralt. 

His face is red and gleaming with sweat. Geralt can not only smell the exertion from running coming from the bard, but days old grime, too. The bright blue colour of his trousers and doublet is dimmed by dirt and his hair, usually fluff and faintly smelling of lavender oil, is unkempt and greasy. 

He is the most beautiful sight Geralt has ever seen. 

“Impeccable timing, my love,” Jaskier puffs as if they had seen each other merely minutes ago. “The shoemaker’s wife told me this morning to get the fuck out of town because you are dead anyway. She even laughed when I told here that you are certainly not and I really wanna see the ugly old hag’s face when she learns that she was wrong. I hope she gets a heart attack. Ugh, you reek. Hallowed hell, what happened to your leg?”

He prods the bandages around Geralt’s thigh, quickly pulling his fingers back when the witcher flinches in pain. 

“Why didn’t you go?”, Geralt demands to know through gritted teeth. 

“I was waiting for you, dunce. We should really go back and have a good look at that leg of yours.” The bard grabs Roach’s harness and leads her at a snail’s pace down the road. “With the miller’s coin we could book a night at the inn, you can rest while I redress your wound. We can take a bath,” he moans wistfully. “No more cleaning myself at the standpost by the marketplace.” 

The witcher won’t believe his ears. Jaskier can’t have waited. He can’t have gambled his own well being because he was unwisely convinced that Geralt would always return from a hunt. 

“I am four days late,” he impatiently asks again. “Why are you still in this town?” 

Jaskier waves a dismissive hand. 

“I knew some stupid drowners wouldn’t get the better of you. Are you hungry? I'm starving.”

“It wasn’t drowners,” Geralt loudly tries to get through the bard’s blathering, his voice dark with anger now. “It was a melusine and she nearly killed me.”

This time, Jaskier stays silent. He keeps walking with Roach’s leash in his hand and his tense shoulders are the only indication that he had heard Geralt’s outburst.

“I could be dead by now and what then, huh? How long would you have waited? Another week? A month? A year?” He is getting louder with every word, but he doesn’t care. It feels good to shout at the unfairness of it all. “You want to starve on the fucking streets of some jerkwater town? You should have left when I didn’t come back!” 

Jaskier suddenly stops them. Geralt can hear him sniffle and a stabbing pain pierces his heart when it strikes him that the bard must be crying. 

When he finally turns, he looks devastated. His eyes are red and swollen and his cheeks are wet with tears. 

“You think the thought didn’t cross my mind? That I didn’t lie awake the third night without a word from you, wondering if I was waiting for a ghost?”, he presses through trembling lips, his voice breaking weakly. 

Geralt grumbles, still furious that Jaskier would discard his own needs so easily, but he tries to tone his anger down for his beloved’s sake.

After some deep breaths, he soothes his features and questions once more with a calmer voice.

“Why didn’t you go?” 

Jaskier uses his sleeve to wipe the snot from his nose.

“What would you have wanted me to do?” he shrugs and lets his arms drop wearily against his sides. 

Staring deeply into those cornflower blue eyes, the witcher tries to let his words sound as grave as possible. Maybe his precious idiot will remember them next time.

“To take care of yourself. To make the right choices to keep on living, not wither away in false hope. I want you  _ alive _ .”

The tears well up again and the bard puts a hand to his eyes as if to keep them at bay. A sob rattles his whole body, and for a minute he stays quiet and motionless until he seems to have pulled himself together. 

He takes hold of Geralt’s calve, squeezing the muscle fondly, and faces him with a mourning smile. 

“Where should I have gone to, Geralt? I don't know where I belong in this world if not by your side.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to answer such a pledge of commitment. 

"Hmm," he courses his injured leg for preventing him from jumping out of the saddle and enveloping Jaskier in the tight hug he obviously needs so desperately. 

Instead, he tentatively places his hand against the side of Jaskier’s face, who nuzzles into his dirt caked palm without any reservations. 

His heart aches for his lover and he wishes he could keep the other man safe from harm and pain. It suddenly strikes Geralt that one way of protecting him is to stay with him and right then and there, the witcher swears to himself that from now on he will always come back to Jaskier and remain at his side for as long as he is allowed to. 

Roach neighs impatiently and breaks the tension. 

Geralt drops his hand in annoyance as Jaskier huffs out a laugh. 

He wipes off his tears and leans forward to press a kiss against the witcher's knee. 

"Now, that's covered," he concludes, his toothy grin back in place. "Let's keep going. You really need a bath, you smell like death." He licks his lips and gags a little. "And taste even worse." 

The rest of the way to the tavern, Jaskier tells Geralt how he had at first performed and later annoyed for coin. Most townsmen were tired of Jaskier's lute, but sometimes they threw vegetables at him that were still eatable. Jaskier had learned to appreciate the food as much as a ducate long before he even had met the witcher, hence the bread in his pants during their first meeting. 

The night he had no more money to continue to pay for the room at the tavern, sweet Hawa had smuggled him into her family's barn. Unfortunately, her father had caught him in the middle of the night, while the bard had shortly gone outside to take a piss. 

Jaskier didn't yield to the farmer's condition of marrying his daughter in exchange for shelter beneath his roof and therefore had to go back out onto the streets. 

At least the weather was kind to him and the nights were dry and not too cold. 

As they walk the stone-flagged street that is only one corner apart from their destination, a small group of children, boys and girls alike, swarm them. 

They are yelling at Jaskier all at once and Geralt grimaces in the face of such uncontrolled chaos. The bard on the other hand thrives in the bedlam and excitedly replies to questions that the witcher didn't even pick up in the hubbub. 

Geralt is reminded of rats when, as quickly as they all came, they scatter away again. 

"Isn't it nice how happy they are for us now that you are back?" Jaskier beams. 

"Oh, you probably wonder why I'm in good graces with a tiny army of hobgoblins," he continues after Geralt kept aiming his frown at him. "I gained their trust by teaching them salacious limericks in exchange for whatever they could steal from their parents' pantry.

"They're the ones who told me you were on your way back. Now, the miller awaits us at the tavern and the innkeeper's wife is told to prepare a bath for you." 

True to the children's chatter, the miller was standing in front of the inn, surrounded by his family. A group of onlookers has gathered, too. 

"Have you been successful?" he presses as he and Jaskier help the wounded man off his horse. "Did you kill the monster?" 

Geralt unties the bloodstained sack containing the melusine's head from the saddlebag and hands it wordlessly to his client. 

The man takes a reluctant look inside, before letting it slip from his fingers and visibly fighting the urge to vomit. 

"Yes, that's the monster that killed my son." 

He turns to his wife and pulls her into a tight hug as she weeps tears of grief and joy alike. 

"We can finally go home," she sobs. 

"How can we ever thank you?" 

"My payment would be a good start," the witcher grunts, feeling uncomfortable at a stranger's display of so much emotion. 

The miller hastily hands over a small pouch. 

Geralt takes out some ducates and passes the rest of the money along to the innkeeper. 

"You drew a bath?" 

"The water is still heating up," the stout man informs him and weighs the purse in his hand. "Come in and wait with an ale." 

Jaskier shoulders Geralt's bag on one arm and tries to support his companion with the other, but his knees buckle beneath the combined weight. The miller quickly moves in and steadies the witcher from the other side. 

Inside the tavern, they set him onto the nearest chair and a mug of ale is set in front of him. 

He gulps the drink down like a parched man and stomps it back down onto the table top with a loud bang. 

"Another drink for our hero," the miller instructs the innkeeper. 

"Two!" Jaskier pipes up with a hopeful face and a raised hand. 

The innkeeper glares daggers at him and Geralt guesses that he must have been one of the bard's involuntary audiences. 

"It's a day to celebrate, drinks for all!" the miller exclaims loudly and the nosy townsfolk, that has followed them inside and fills up the small room, cheers. "Let's drink to the hero who avenged my Yorik and claimed back my family's home." 

The ale is passed around quickly, Jaskier makes grabby hands at a mug and keeps hold on the first jug that comes along. He refills Geralt's mug and then his own, before he raises his drink together with the other patrons, a proud smile on his face. 

"To the witcher!" the miller shouts. His words are repeated with enthusiasm and everyone drinks. 

Geralt sips at his ale and then fingers the bandages around his thigh, wondering if this spectacle will delay his bath. 

"To the white wolf!" the miller shouts once more and everyone rejoices and drinks again. 

"To the…," he pauses in search for another way to toast to his saviour. 

Geralt feels his eyes on him and sighs. 

"Geralt Pankratz." 

"To Geralt Pankratz!" the miller repeats and the whole room follows his example. 

The only person protesting is Jaskier, but no one cares for him, except for his partner. 

"Nononono!" he interjects and bashes his mug against the table to gain Geralt's attention, unwittingly that he was the only one having it all along. 

"People are gonna get that name, privileges and drawbacks and everything in between, under one condition and one condition only."

There is a smug grin on his lips as he wiggles his fingers in Geralt's face. 

"In exchange for a ring." 

Geralt looks that lovable little shit dead in the eye, then pulls his bag closer and diggs through it. 

Around them, the people are drinking merily and someone strikes up  _ toss a coin.  _ Now and then, the witcher receives an appreciating slap on his back or another toast, but for the most part, the two are left alone.

After a moment, he finds what he is looking for and throws it onto the table between them. 

The silver brass knuckles fall onto the wood with a loud thud and Jaskier's mouth drops wide open. 

He blinks at the item and slowly begins talking, then his words gain speed like a snowball turning into an avalanche. 

"A. I was joking. B. This is not a wedding ring. C. No take-backs. Yes!" 

He grabs the weapon and puts it on his fingers. "I'm gonna be your husband for the rest of your life!" he boasts as if he had defeated Geralt in some complicated game. "I will love you and cherish you and there will be nothing you can do about it. Keep your ears open, I see a love ballad and in your future. On second thought," he remarks as the heavy object keeps slipping off his hand. "We will have to get real rings eventually."

"Sure," Geralt answers as calmly as he can when his heart has never beaten this fast and his cheeks hurt from fighting a foolishly big grin. 

Jaskier pauses his buzzing and fixes wide eyes on the witcher. 

“Are you taking the piss out of me, again?” he hisses and drops the silver weapon back on the table. “I swear if this is a joke I will hit you over the head with my lute!” 

“I give you my brass knuckles and you still threaten me with your lute instead?” Geralt asks amused. 

“I will kill you,” Jaskier states unusually muted.

Geralt puts a calming hand on his elbow before the bard can actually grab his instrument. 

“I wouldn’t jest about that. Trust me,” he assures and strokes down Jaskier’s arm to hold his hand. He lets his thumb glide over the bard’s finger where he never imagined a ring before, but finds the idea quite appealing. “I, uhm, I know I seldom express myself properly and I owe you many declarations of love.”

Though Jaskier’s eyes are still slitted and he has his nose upturned in casual distaste, he waits patiently as Geralt gathers his thoughts. The witcher’s eyes flit back and forth as if he could read a speech in the tabletop’s old scratches. He settles for the truth.

“I am not as educated as you are. I don’t know any words big enough to tell you what I feel for you, but- Hmmm. But I am happy if you take me as your husband.” 

Geralt didn’t know an ordinary human could move this fast. He blinked in surprise at Jaskier’s lips pressing suddenly against his own, their teeth clashing painfully against each other. 

The kiss is over far too quickly, yet Jaskier’s death grip on Geralt’s face remains. 

“You’re happy?  _ I _ am happy!” he exclaims and shakes the other man slightly. 

“Oi, witcher!” The innkeeper’s wife stands ill-humoured in the archway that leads to the stairs in the back. Perhaps she is angry to have missed the beginning of the celebrations. “Bath is ready.” 

Jaskier hurries to his feet and pulls Geralt’s arm over his shoulders. Together they make their way towards the stairs and leave the jaunty bash behind them. 

The sullen woman indicates their room and then disappears into the tumult. 

In a steady pace, they master the stairs. With Jaskier’s help Geralt is quickly undressed and carefully lowered into the bathtub. 

His injured leg is bend at the knee to keep the wound above water. Jaskier perches on the tub’s rim to gingerly clean the cut. His back is to Geralt and the witcher can’t restrain his hands from stroking along his spine or dance over his ribs. Not being close to the bard, not touching him at all seems impossible to him right now. 

“I can’t believe I missed the love in your touch for so long,” Jaskier sighs as he leans back into Geralt’s palm.

“I can’t believe I didn’t hear the verity in your words when you talked about your devotion,” Geralt responded, his voice still holding the sound of awe. 

Jaskier looks back over his shoulder to smile at his love. 

“You may be as expressive as a rock for the most part, nevertheless, there is a poet’s heart in you.” 

“That is because it’s yours.” 

The bard’s joy is bright on his face as he leans down to reward his witcher’s clever use of words with a quick kiss. Geralt, not satisfied with the short peck, pulls on his tunic until he loses his balance and falls on top of him. 

The bard’s startled yelp turns into laughter and is then smothered by his lover’s lips. 

"I love you, Geralt  _ Pankratz _ ," Jaskier breathes between kisses. 

Months ago, Geralt would never have dared to dream of this. Of holding love and happiness in his arms and being held close just as fiercely. He had feared his heart would break, but it is bursting and no matter what pain the future may hold, it will have been worth it. 

It took him years to appreciate Jaskier’s friendship and realise his own feelings. They bicker and fight and never seem to get the hang of communication. Geralt should have scared the bard away by now. Jaskier should have gotten bored with the witcher a long time ago. Their partnership is complicated and full of ups and downs. They shouldn't work. 

Yet here they are. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> thank you for the nice comments that helped me to keep writing 🌹


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